The knot has been tied. The deed is done. The ring is on it, the bride is bedded, the fucking YEAR of planning and stressing and exciting is over. Finally.
It was absolutely wonderful—a dream wedding. Everything went perfectly, even when it didn't. I got to marry my husband (oooh) surrounded by friends and family, only a hefty stone's throw from my home.
And I'm so relieved I never have to plan a wedding again.
We did it at the Greenpoint Loft, which is a stunning, unique venue that also comes with... absolutely zippola inside it. That means vendors. Thinking. Visualizing. Hair tearing. We pulled it off, but now I want to share information I wish we'd had—like a floor plan, for one. I also would love to post more photos of us and me. My dress hunt. Vow (and ceremony) writing. I literally made my own veil, guys.
Tally-ho! The plodding road of life has not ended here: I have a big, bad sabbatical coming up in about oh 6 weeks. You know what that means: Lots! Of! Exclamation! Points! Get comfy.
My aunt and uncle are huge opera people, and they somehow got me a last minute ticket in row G. To put that into perspective: it's like watching a baseball game from the dugout, or being in Beyonce's weave at a Beach House concert.
I'd only seen one other opera-- Carmen at the Lyric in Chicago. That's not including, of course, billions of "popular music" concerts, on- and off-Broadway shows, plays and assorted Light Opera Works at Northwestern.
I showed up on time and was promptly escorted up the stairs of the Met. As seasoned professionals, my aunt and uncle have a no-nonsense routine and I happily followed it. Spoiler: preshow espresso and coat check, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries at the first intermission, director's office for more champagne during second intermission. Extravagant dinner post-show. And scene.
The whole thing was a fascinating study in how I could live, if I had decided to go with a major in banking or forgery. For example: the couple next to me were suitably impressed that a 22 year old had scored such impressive digs front and center, saying that it had taken them decades to move on up. They couldn't figure me out.
Him: Where did you go to school?
Me: Boston University.
Him: Ahh so you are in law school now?
Me: ... No.
Him: Ahh but you live in the Upper West Side?
Me: Nope, Brooklyn.
Him: Hmm. I see. Well...
CURTAINS rustled. I watched the chandeliers descend. The little subtitles on the seat in front of me flicked on. Nobody was using mics, that's for sure. I may have had a bit of a moment during the first act.
La Traviata is a pretty rad story, actually. It's the opera Richard Gere takes Julia Roberts to see in Pretty Woman, if that rings any bells. A courtesan and a man fall in love, move to the country. Shenanigans ensue, she has to break up with him, duel is fought. She gets sick, he finds her and forgives her, she dies in his arms. And the music! And the scenery! The costumes! This was the final performance of the Verdi-contemporary production. All the scenery and costumes are getting shipped off and the next season will have a modern retelling.
[tears]
The cool thing about being so close was seeing the exhaustive overacting. Everybody was working it out for the back row. And the guy playing Alfredo? Stone cold hottie.
It wasn't an oooopera opera-- the performers were amazing without all the silliness. These videos are a bit over the top vocally, but I didn't find it to be that way at all for my show.
My next opera would hopefully be something Mozart. Of all the piano music I learned over the years, only two Mozart pieces stayed in my fingers.
Although, to be fair-- if champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries are involved, I'd go to any Wagner production and smile the whole time.
I hope someone's paying Wes Anderson royalties, though. Yankee Racers goggles? Slow mo? Yellow?
And this is Daisy Lowe's chance to prove she's not that spoiled chick who threw a sullen tantrum outside of Fabiane's that one time, when I was trying to eat breakfast. (Allegedly.)
